David Poindexter's Disappearance and Other Tales by Julian Hawthorne

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"Mary Cleveland, of Boston; married Hamilton Leithe, about nineteenyears ago. I used to know the lady. And this is her daughter! And MaryCleveland is dead!--Help yourself, Haymaker. I never take more than onecourse at this hour of the day."

"But you must let me introduce you, you know," mumbled Haymaker,through his succotash.

"I hardly know," said Drayton, rubbing his mustache. "Pardon me if Ileave you," he added, looking at his watch. "It is later than Ithought."

Nothing more was seen of Drayton for the rest of that day. But the nextmorning, as Mary Leithe sat on the Bowlder Rock, with a book on herlap, and her eyes on the bathers, and her thoughts elsewhere, she hearda light, leisurely tread behind her, and a gentlemanly, effectivefigure made its appearance, carrying a malacca walking-stick, and asmall telescope in a leather case slung over the shoulder.

"Good-morning, Miss Leithe," said this personage, in a quiet andpleasant voice. "I knew your mother before you were born, and I can notfeel like a stranger toward her daughter. My name is Ambrose Drayton.You look something like your mother, I think."

"I think I remember mamma's having spoken of you," said Mary Leithe,looking up a little shyly, but with a smile that was the most winningof her many winning manifestations. Her upper lip, short, but somewhatfuller than the lower one, was always alive with delicate movements;the corners of her mouth were blunt, the teeth small; and the smile wassuch as Psyche's might have been when Cupid waked her with a kiss.

"It was here I first met your mother," continued Drayton, taking hisplace beside her. "We often sat together on this very rock. I was ayoung fellow then, scarcely older than you, and very full of romanceand enthusiasm. Your mother--". He paused a moment, looking at hiscompanion with a grave smile in his eyes. "If I had been as dear to heras she was to me," he went on, "you would have been our daughter."

Mary looked out upon the bathers, and upon the azure bay, and into herown virgin heart. "Are you married, too?" she asked at length.

"I was cut out for an old bachelor, and I have been true to mydestiny," was his reply. "Besides, I've lived abroad till a month ortwo ago, and good Americans don't marry foreign wives."

"I should like to go abroad," said Mary Leithe.

"It is the privilege of Americans," said Drayton. "Other people areborn abroad, and never know the delight of real travel. But, after all,America is best. The life of the world culminates here. We are the prowof the vessel; there may be more comfort amidships, but we are thefirst to touch the unknown seas. And the foremost men of all nationsare foremost only in so far as they are at heart American; that is tosay, America is, at present, even more an idea and a principle than itis a country. The nation has perhaps not yet risen to the height of itsopportunities. So you have never crossed the Atlantic?"

"No; my father never wanted to go; and after he died, mamma could not."

"Well, our American Emerson says, you know, that, as the good of travelrespects only the mind, we need not depend for it on railways andsteamboats."

"It seems to me, if we never moved ourselves, our minds would neverreally move either."

"Where would you most care to go?"

"To Rome, and Jerusalem, and Egypt, and London."

"Why?"

"They seem like parts of my mind that I shall never know unless I visitthem."

"Is there no part of the world that answers to your heart?"

"Oh, the beautiful parts everywhere, I suppose."

"I can well believe it," said Drayton, but with so much simplicity andstraightforwardness that Mary Leithe's cheeks scarcely changed color."And there is beauty enough here," he added, after a pause.

"Yes; I have always liked this place," said she, "though the cottagesseem a pity."

"You knew the old farm-house, then?"

"Oh, yes; I used to play in the farm-yard when I was a little girl.After my father died, Mamma used to come here every year. And my aunthas a cottage here now. You haven't met my aunt, Mr. Drayton?"

"I wished to know you first. But now I want to know her, and to becomeone of the family. There is no one left, I find, who belongs to me.What would you think of me for a bachelor uncle?"

"I would like it very much," said Mary, with a smile.

"Then let us begin," returned Drayton.

Several days passed away very pleasantly. Never was there a bacheloruncle so charming, as Haymaker would have said, as Drayton. The kind oflife in the midst of which he found himself was altogether novel anddelightful to him. In some aspects it was like enjoying for the firsttime a part of his existence which he should have enjoyed in youth, buthad missed; and in many ways he doubtless enjoyed it more now than hewould have done then, for he brought it to a maturity of experiencewhich had taught him the inestimable value of simple things; a quietnobility of character and clearness of knowledge that enabled him toperceive and follow the right course in small things as in great; aserene yet cordial temperament that rendered him the cheerfulest andmost trustworthy of companions; a generous and masculine disposition,as able to direct as to comply; and years which could sympathizeimpartially with youth and age, and supply something which each lacked.He, meanwhile, sometimes seemed to himself to be walking in a dream.The region in which he was living, changed, yet so familiar, thethought of being once more, after so many years of homeless wandering,in his own land and among his own countrymen, and the companionship ofMary Leithe, like, yet so unlike, the Mary Cleveland he had known andloved, possessing in reality all the tenderness and lovely virginalsweetness that he had imagined in the other, with a warmth of heartthat rejuvenated his own, and a depth and freshness of mind answeringto the wisdom that he had drawn from experience, and rendering her,though in her different and feminine sphere, his equal--all thesethings made Drayton feel as if he would either awake and find them thephantasmagoria of a beautiful dream, or as if the past time were thedream, and this the reality. Certainly, in this ardent, penetratinglight of the present, the past looked vaporous and dim, like a range ofmountains scaled long ago and vanishing on the horizon.

And was this all? Doubtless it was, at first. It was natural thatDrayton should regard with peculiar tenderness the daughter of thewoman he had loved. She was an orphan, and poor; he was alone in theworld, with no one dependent upon him, and with wealth which could findno better use than to afford this girl the opportunities and theenjoyments which she else must lack. His anticipations in returning toAmerica had been somewhat cold and vague. It was his native land; butabstract patriotism is, after all, rather chilly diet for a human beingto feed his heart upon. The unexpected apparition of Mary Leithe hadprovided just that vividness and particularity that were wanting.Insensibly Drayton bestowed upon her all the essence of the love ofcountry which he had cherished untainted throughout his long exile. Itwas so much easier and simpler a thing to know and appreciate her thanto do as much for the United States and their fifty millioninhabitants, national, political, and social, that it is no wonder ifDrayton, as a modest and sane gentleman, preferred to make the formerthe symbol of the latter--of all, at least, that was good and lovabletherein. At the same time, so clear-headed a man could scarcely havefailed to be aware that his affection for Mary Leithe was not actuallydependent upon the fact of her being an emblem. Upon what, then, was itdependent? Upon her being the daughter of Mary Cleveland? It was truethat he had loved Mary Cleveland; but she had deliberately jilted himto marry a wealthier man, and was therefore connected with andresponsible for the most painful as well as the most pleasurableepisode of his early life. Mary Leithe bore some personal resemblanceto her mother; but had she been as like her in character anddisposition as she was in figure and feature, would Drayton, knowingwhat he knew, have felt drawn toward her? A man does not remain fortwenty years under the influence of an unreasonable and mistakenpassion. Drayton certainly had not, although his disappointment hadkept him a bachelor all his life, and altered the whole course of hisexistence. But when we have once embarked upon a certain career, wecontinue in it long after the motive which started us has beenforgotten. No; Drayton's regard for Mary Leithe must stand on its ownbasis, independent of all other considerations.

What, in the next place, was the nature of this regard? Was it merelyavuncular, or something different? Drayton assured himself that it wasthe former. He was a man of the world, and had done with passions. Theidea of his falling in love made him smile in a deprecatory manner.That the object of such love should be a girl eighteen years his juniorrendered the suggestion yet more irrational. She was lustrous withlovable qualities, which he genially recognized and appreciated; nay,he might love her, but the love would be a quasi-paternal one, not thelove that demands absolute possession and brooks no rivalry. Hisattitude was contemplative and beneficent, not selfish and exclusive.His greatest pleasure would be to see her married to some one worthy ofher. Meantime he might devote himself to her freely and without fear.

And yet, once again, was he not the dupe of himself and of aconvention? Was his the mood in which an uncle studies his niece, oreven a father his daughter? How often during the day was she absentfrom his thoughts, or from his dreams at night? What else gave him somuch happiness as to please her, and what would he not do to give herpleasure? Why was he dissatisfied and aimless when not in her presence?Why so full-orbed and complete when she was near? He was eighteen yearsthe elder, but there was in her a fullness of nature, a balanceddevelopment, which went far toward annulling the discrepancy. Moreover,though she was young, he was not old, and surely he had the knowledge,the resources, and the will to make her life happy. There would be, hefancied, a certain poetical justice in such an issue. It wouldillustrate the slow, seemingly severe, but really tender wisdom ofProvidence. Out of the very ashes of his dead hopes would arise thisgracious flower of promise. She would afford him scope for theemployment of all those riches, moral and material, which life hadbrought him; she would be his reward for having lived honorably andpurely for purity's and honor's sake. But why multiply reasons? Therewas justification enough; and true love knows nothing of justification.He loved her, then; and now, did she love him? This was the realproblem--the mystery of a maiden's heart, which all Solomon's wisdomand Bacon's logic fail to elucidate. Drayton did what he could. Once hecame to her with the news that he must be absent from an excursionwhich they had planned, and he saw genuine disappointment darken hersweet face, and her slender figure seem to droop. This was well as faras it went, but beyond that it proved nothing. Another time he gave hera curious little shell which he had picked up while they were ramblingtogether along the beach, and some time afterward he accidently noticedthat she was wearing it by a ribbon round her neck. This seemed better.Again, on a night when there was a social gathering at the hotel, heentered the room and sat apart at one of the windows, and as long as heremained there he felt that her gaze was upon him, and twice or thricewhen he raised his eyes they were met by hers, and she smiled; andafterward, when he was speaking near her, he noticed that shedisregarded what her companion of the moment was saying to her, andlistened only to him. Was not all this encouragement? Nevertheless,whenever, presuming upon this, he hazarded less ambiguousdemonstrations, she seemed to shrink back and appear strange andtroubled. This behavior perplexed him; he doubted the evidence that hadgiven him hope; feared that he was a fool; that she divined his love,and pitied him, and would have him, if at all, only out of pity.Thereupon he took himself sternly to task, and resolved to give her up.

It was a transparent July afternoon, with white and gray cloudsdrifting across a clear blue sky, and a southwesterly breeze rougheningthe dark waves and showing their white shoulders. Mary Leithe andDrayton came slowly along the rocks, he assisting her to climb ordescend the more rugged places, and occasionally pausing with her towatch the white canvas of a yacht shiver in the breeze as she wentabout, or to question whether yonder flash amid the waves, where thegulls were hovering and dipping, were a bluefish breaking water. Atlength they reached a little nook in the seaward face, which, by oftenresorting to it, they had in a manner made their own. It was a smallshelf in the rock, spacious enough for two to sit in at ease, with aback to lean against, and at one side a bit of level ledge which servedas a stand or table. Before them was the sea, which, at high-watermark, rose to within three yards of their feet; while from theshoreward side they were concealed by the ascending wall of sandstone.Drayton had brought a cushion with him, which he arranged in Mary'sseat; and when they had established themselves, he took a volume ofEmerson's poems from his pocket and laid it on the rock beside him.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"Yes; I wish it would be always like this--the weather, and the sun,and the time--so that we might stay here forever."

"Forever is the least useful word in human language," observed Drayton."In the perspective of time, a few hours, or days, or years, seem alikeinconsiderable."

"But it is not the same to our hearts, which live forever," shereturned.

"The life of the heart is love," said Drayton.

"And that lasts forever," said Mary Leithe.

"True love lasts, but the object changes," was his reply.

"It seems to change sometimes," said she.

"But I think it is only our perception that is misled. We think we havefound what we love; but afterward, perhaps, we find it was not in theperson we supposed, but in some other. Then we love it in him; notbecause our heart has changed, but just because it has not."

"Has that been your experience?" Drayton asked, with a smile.

"Oh, I was speaking generally," she said, looking down.

"It may be the truth; but if so, it is a perilous thing to be loved."

"Perilous?"

"Why, yes. How can the lover be sure that he really is what hismistress takes him for? After all, a man has and is nothing in himself.His life, his love, his goodness, such as they are, flow into him fromhis Creator, in such measure as he is capable or desirous of receivingthem. And he may receive more at one time than at another. How shall heknow when he may lose the talismanic virtue that won her love--evensupposing he ever possessed it?"

"I don't know how to argue," said Mary Leithe; "I can only feel when athing is true or not--or when I think it is--and say what I feel."

"Well, I am wise enough to trust the truth of your feeling before anyargument."

This assertion somewhat disconcerted Mary Leithe, who never liked to beconfronted with her own shadow, so to speak. However, she seemedresolved on this occasion to give fuller utterance than usual to whatwas in her mind; so, after a pause, she continued, "It is not only howmuch we are capable of receiving from God, but the peculiar way inwhich each one of us shows what is in him, that makes the difference inpeople. It is not the talisman so much as the manner of using it thatwins a girl's love. And she may think one manner good until she comesto know that another is better."

"And, later, that another is better still?"

"You trust my feeling less than you thought, you see," said Mary,blushing, and with a tremor of her lips.

"Perhaps I am afraid of trusting it too much," Drayton replied, fixinghis eyes upon her. Then he went on, with a changed tone and manner:"This metaphysical discussion of ours reminds me of one of Emerson'spoems, whose book, by-the-by, I brought with me. Have you ever readthem?"

"Very few of them," said Mary; "I don't seem to belong to them."

"Not many people can eat them raw, I imagine," rejoined Drayton,laughing. "They must be masticated by the mind before they can nourishthe heart, and some of them--However, the one I am thinking of is verybeautiful, take it how you will. It is called, 'Give all to Love.' Doyou know it!"

Mary shook her head.

"Then listen to it," said Drayton, and he read the poem to her. "Whatdo you think of it?" he asked when he had ended.

"It is very short," said Mary, "and it is certainly beautiful; but Idon't understand some parts of it, and I don't think I like some otherparts."

"It is a true poem," returned Drayton; "it has a body and a soul; thebody is beautiful, but the soul is more beautiful still; and where thebody seems incomplete, the soul is most nearly perfect. Be loyal, itsays, to the highest good you know; follow it through all difficultiesand dangers; make it the core of your heart and the life of your soul;and yet, be free of it! For the hour may always be at hand when thatgood that you have lived for and lived in must be given up. And then--what says the poet?

"'Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive, Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive.'"

There was something ominous in Drayton's tone, quiet and pleasantthough it sounded to the ear, and Mary could not speak; she knew thathe would speak again, and that his words would bring the issue finallybefore her.

He shut the book and put it in his pocket. For some time he remainedsilent, gazing eastward across the waves, which came from afar to breakagainst the rock at their feet. A small white pyramidal object stood upagainst the horizon verge, and upon this Drayton's attention appearedto be concentrated.

"If you should ever decide to come," he said at length, "and want theservices of a courier who knows the ground well, I shall be at yourdisposal."

"Come where?" she said, falteringly.

"Eastward. To Europe."

"You will go with me?"

"Hardly that. But I shall be there to receive you."

"You are going back?"

"In a month, or thereabouts."

"Oh, Mr. Drayton! Why?"

"Well, for several reasons. My coming here was an experiment. It mighthave succeeded, but it was made too late. I am too old for this youngcountry. I love it, but I can be of no service to it. On the contrary,so far as I was anything, I should be in the way. It does not need me,and I have been an exile so long as to have lost my right to inflictmyself upon it. Yet I am glad to have been here; the little time that Ihave been here has recompensed me for all the sorrows of my life, and Ishall never forget an hour of it as long as I live."

"Are you quite sure that your country does not want you--need you?"

"I should not like my assurance to be made more sure."

"How can you know? Who has told you? Whom have you asked?"

"There are some questions which it is not wise to put; questions whoseanswers may seem ungracious to give, and are sad to hear."

"But the answer might not seem so. And how can it be given until youask it?"

Drayton turned and looked at her. His face was losing its resolutecomposure, and there was a glow in his eyes and in his cheeks thatcalled up an answering warmth in her own.

"Do you know where my country is?" he demanded, almost sternly.

"It is where you are loved and wanted most, is it not?" she said,breathlessly.

"Do not deceive yourself--nor me!" exclaimed Drayton, putting out hishand toward her, and half rising from the rock. "There is only onething more to say."

A sea-gull flew close by them, and swept on, and in a moment was faraway, and lost to sight. So in our lives does happiness come so near usas almost to brush our cheeks with its wings, and then pass on, andbecome as unattainable as the stars. As Mary Leithe was about to speak,a shadow cast from above fell across her face and figure. She seemed tofeel a sort of chill from it, warm though the day was; and withoutmoving her eyes from Drayton's face to see whence the shadow came, herexpression underwent a subtle and sudden change, losing the fervor of amoment before, and becoming relaxed and dismayed. But after a momentDrayton looked up, and immediately rose to his feet, exclaiming, "FrankRedmond!"

On the rock just above them stood a young man, dark of complexion, witheager eyes, and a figure athletic and strong. As Drayton spoke hisname, his countenance assumed an expression half-way between pleasedsurprise and jealous suspicion. Meanwhile Mary Leithe had covered herface with her hands.

"I'm sure I'd no idea you were here, Mr. Drayton," said the young man."I was looking for Mary Leithe. Is that she?"

Mary uncovered her face, and rose to her feet languidly. She did not asyet look toward Redmond, but she said in a low voice, "How do you do,Frank? You--came so suddenly!"

"I didn't stop to think--that I might interrupt you," said he, drawingback a little and lifting his head.

Drayton had been observing the two intently, breathing constrainedlythe while, and grasping a jutting point of rock with his hand as hestood. He now said, in a genial and matter-of-fact voice, "Well, MasterFrank, I shall have an account to settle with you when you and my niecehave got through your first greetings."

"Mary your niece!" cried Redmond, bewildered.

"My niece by courtesy; her mother was a dear friend of mine before Marywas born. And now it appears that she is the young lady, the dearestand loveliest ever heard of, about whom you used to rhapsodize to me inDresden! Why didn't you tell me her name? By Jove, you young rogue,I've a good mind to refuse my consent to the match! What if I hadmarried her off to some other young fellow, and you been left in thelurch! However, luckily for you, I haven't been able thus far to findany one who in my opinion--How do you do, Frank? You--came sosuddenly!"

"I didn't stop to think--that I might interrupt you," said he, drawingback a little and lifting his head.

Drayton had been observing the two intently, breathing constrainedlythe while, and grasping a jutting point of rock with his hand as hestood. He now said, in a genial and matter-of-fact voice, "Well, MasterFrank, I shall have an account to settle with you when you and my niecehave got through your first greetings."

"Mary your niece!" cried Redmond, bewildered.

"My niece by courtesy; her mother was a dear friend of mine before Marywas born. And now it appears that she is the young lady, the dearestand loveliest ever heard of, about whom you used to rhapsodize to me inDresden! Why didn't you tell me her name? By Jove, you young rogue,I've a good mind to refuse my consent to the match! What if I hadmarried her off to some other young fellow, and you been left in thelurch! However, luckily for you, I haven't been able thus far to findany one who in my opinion would suit her better. Come down here andshake hands, Frank, and then I'll leave you to make your excuses toMiss Leithe. And the next time you come back to her after a year'sabsence, don't frighten her heart into her mouth by springing out onher like a jack-in-the-box. Send a bunch of flowers or a signet-ring totell her you are coming, or you may get a cooler reception than you'dlike!"

"Ah! Ambrose Drayton," he sighed to himself as he clambered down therocks alone, and sauntered along the shore, "there is no fool like anold fool. Where were your eyes that you couldn't have seen what was thematter? Her heart was fighting against itself all the time, poor child!And you, selfish brute, bringing to bear on her all your antiquatedcharms and fascinations--Heaven save the mark!--and bullying her intothe belief that you could make her happy! Thank God, Ambrose Drayton,that your awakening did not come too late. A minute more would havemade her and you miserable for life--and Redmond too, confound him! Andyet they might have told me; one of them might have told me, surely.Even at my age it is hard to remember one's own insignificance. And Idid love her! God knows how I loved her! I hope he loves her as much;but how can he help it! And she--she won't remember long! An old fellowwho made believe he was her uncle, and made rather a fool of himself;went back to Europe, and never been heard of since. Ah, me!"

"Where did you get acquainted with Mr. Drayton, Frank?"

"At Dresden. It was during the vacation at Freiberg last winter, and Ihad come over to Dresden to have a good time. We stayed at the samehotel. We played a game of billiards together, and he chatted with meabout America, and asked me about my mining studies at Freiberg; and Ithought him about the best fellow I'd ever met. But I didn't know then--I hadn't any conception what a splendid fellow he really was. If everI hear anybody talking of their ideal of a gentleman, I shall ask themif they ever met Ambrose Drayton."

"What did he do?"

"Well, the story isn't much to my credit; if it hadn't been for him,you might never have heard of me again; and it will serve me right toconfess the whole thing to you. It's about a--woman."

"What sort of a woman?"

"She called herself a countess; but there's no telling what she reallywas. I only know she got me into a fearful scrape, and if it hadn'tbeen for Mr. Drayton--"

"Did you do anything wrong, Frank?"

"No; upon my honor as a gentleman! If I had, Mary, I wouldn't be herenow."

Mary looked at him with a sad face. "Of course I believe you, Frank,"she said. "But I think I would rather not hear any more about it."

"Well, I'll only tell you what Mr. Drayton did. I told him all about it--how it began, and how it went on, and all; and how I was engaged to agirl in America--I didn't tell him your name; and I wasn't sure, then,whether you'd ever marry me, after all; because, you know, you had beenawfully angry with me before I went away, because I wanted to study inEurope instead of staying at home. But, you see, I've got my diploma,and that'll give me a better start than I ever should have had if I'donly studied here. However--what was I saying? Oh! so he said he wouldfind out about the countess, and talk to her himself. And how hemanaged I don't know; and he gave me a tremendous hauling over thecoals for having been such an idiot; but it seems that instead of beinga poor injured, deceived creature, with a broken heart, and all thatsort of thing, she was a regular adventuress--an old hand at it, andhad got lots of money out of other fellows for fear she would make arow. But Mr. Drayton had an interview with her. I was there, and Inever shall forget it if I live to a hundred. You never saw anybody soquiet, so courteous, so resolute, and so immitigably stern as he was.And yet he seemed to be stern only against the wrong she was trying todo, and to be feeling kindness and compassion for her all the time. Shetried everything she knew, but it wasn't a bit of use, and at last shebroke down and cried, and carried on like a child. Then Mr. Draytontook her out of the room, and I don't know what happened, but I'vealways suspected that he sent her off with money enough in her pocketto become an honest woman with if she chose to; but he never wouldadmit it to me. He came back to me after a while, and told me to havenothing more to do with any woman, good or bad except the woman Imeant to marry, and I promised him I wouldn't, and I kept my promise.But we have him to thank for our happiness, Mary."

Tears came silently into Mary's eyes; she said nothing, but sat withher hands clasped around one knee, gazing seaward.

"You don't seem very happy, though," pursued Redmond, after a pause;"and you acted so oddly when I first found you and Mr. Draytontogether--I almost thought--well, I didn't know what to think. You dolove me, don't you?"

For a few moments Mary Leithe sat quite motionless, save for a slighttremor of the nerves that pervaded her whole body; and then, all atonce, she melted into sobs. Redmond could not imagine what was thematter with her; but he put his arms round her, and after a littlehesitation or resistance, the girl hid her face upon his shoulder, andwept for the secret that she would never tell.

But Mary Leithe's nature was not a stubborn one, and easily adapteditself to the influences with which she was most closely in contact.When she and Redmond presented themselves at Aunt Corwin's cottage thatevening her tears were dried, and only a tender dimness of the eyes anda droop of her sweet mouth betrayed that she had shed any.

"Mr. Drayton wanted to be remembered to you, Mary," observed AuntCorwin, shortly before going to bed. She had been floating colored sea-weeds on paper all the time since supper, and had scarcely spoken adozen words.

"Has he gone?" Mary asked.

"Who? Oh, yes; he had a telegram, I believe. His trunks were to followhim. He said he would write. I liked that man. He was not like Mr.Haymaker; he was a gentleman. He took an interest in my collections,and gave me several nice specimens. Your mother was a fool not to havemarried him. I wish you could have married him yourself. But it was notto be expected that he would care for a child like you, even if yourhead were not turned by that Frank Redmond. How soon shall you let himmarry you?"

"Whenever he likes," answered Mary Leithe, turning away.

As a matter of fact, they were married the following winter. A weekbefore the ceremony a letter arrived for Mary from New York, addressedin a legal hand. It contained an intimation that, in accordance withthe instructions of their client, Mr. Ambrose Drayton, the undersignedhad placed to her account the sum of fifty thousand dollars as apreliminary bequest, it being the intention of Mr. Drayton to make herhis heir. There was an inclosure from Drayton himself, which Mary,after a moment's hesitation, placed in her lover's hand, and bade himbreak the seal.

It contained only a few lines, wishing happiness to the bride andbridegroom, and hoping they all might meet in Europe, should thewedding trip extend so far. "And as for you, my dear niece," continuedthe writer, "whenever you think of me remember that little poem ofEmerson's that we read on the rocks the last time I saw you. The longerI live the more of truth do I find in it, especially in the last verse:

"'Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive!'"

"What does that mean?" demanded Redmond, looking up from the letter.

"We can not know except by experience," answered Mary Leithe.

"SET NOT THY FOOT ON GRAVES."

_New York_, _April 29th_.--Last night I came upon thispassage in my old author: "Friend, take it sadly home to thee--Age andYouthe are strangers still. Youthe, being ignorant of the wisdome ofAge, which is Experience, but wise with its own wisdome, which is ofthe unshackeled Soule, or Intuition, is great in Enterprise, but slackin Achievement. Holding itself equal to all attempts and conditions,and to be heir, not of its own spanne of yeares and compasse ofFaculties only, but of all time and all Human Nature--such, I saye,being its illusion (if, indeede, it be illusion, and not in some sortea Truth), it still underrateth the value of Opportunitie, and, in thevain beleefe that the City of its Expectation is paved with Golde andwalled with Precious Stones, letteth slip betwixt its fingers thosediamondes and treasures which ironical Fate offereth it.... But seenowe what the case is when this youthe becometh in yeares. For nowe hecan nowise understand what defecte of Judgmente (or effecte ofinsanitie rather) did leade him so to despise and, as it were, rejectthose Giftes and golden chaunces which come but once to mortal men.Experience (that saturnine Pedagogue) hath taught him what manner ofman he is, and that, farre from enjoying that Deceptive Seeminge ormirage of Freedome which would persuade him that he may run hither andthither as the whim prompteth over the face of the Earthe--yea, takethe wings of the morninge and winnowe his aerie way to the Pleiadies--he must e'en plod heavilie and with paine along that single and narrowePath whereto the limitations of his personal nature and professionconfine him--happy if he arrive with muche diligence and faire creditat the ende thereof, and falle not ignobly by the way. Neverthelesse--for so great is the infatuation of man, who, although he acquireth allother knowledge, yet arriveth not at the knowledge of Himself--if tothe Sage of Experience he proffered once again the gauds and prizes ofyouthe, which he hath ever since regretted and longed for--what doethhe in his wisdome? Verilie, so longe as the matter remaineth _innubibis_, as the Latins say, or in the Region of the Imagination, asoure speeche hath it, he will beleeve, yea, take his oathe, that hestill is master of all those capacities and energies whiche, in hisyouthe, would have prompted and enabled him to profit by this desiredoccurrence. Yet shall it appeare (if the thinge be brought stillfurther to the teste, and, from an Imagination or Dreame, become anactual Realitie), that he will shrinke from and decline that which hedid erste so ardently sigh for and covet. And the reason of this is asfollows, to-wit: That Habit or Custome hath brought him more to loveand affect those very ways and conditions of life, yea, thoseinconveniences and deficiencies which he useth to deplore and abhorre,than that Crown of Golde or Jewel of Happiness whose withholding hehath all his life lamented. Hence we may learne, that what is past, isdead, and that though thoughts be free, nature is ever captive, andloveth her chaine."

This is too lugubrious and cynical not to have some truth in it; but Iam unwilling to believe that more than half of it is true. The authorhimself was evidently an old man, and therefore a prejudiced judge; andhe did not make allowances for the range and variety of temperament.Age is not a matter of years, and scarcely of experience. The onlyreally old persons are the selfish ones. The man whose thoughts,actions, and affections center upon himself, soon acquires a fixity andcrustiness which (if to be old is to be "strange to youth") is old asnothing else is. But the man who makes the welfare and happiness ofothers his happiness, is as young at threescore as he was at twenty,and perhaps even younger, for he has had no time to grow old.

_April 30th_.--The Courtneys are in town! This is, I believe, herfirst visit to America since he married her. At all events, I have notseen or heard of her in all these seven years. I wonder ... I was goingto write, I wonder whether she remembers me. Of course she remembersme, in a sort of way. I am tied up somewhere among her bundle ofrecollections, and occasionally, in an idle moment, her eye falls uponme, and moves her, perhaps, to smile or to sigh. For my own part, inthinking over our old days, I find I forget her less than I hadsupposed. Probably she has been more or less consciously in my mindthroughout. In the same way, one has always latent within him theknowledge that he must die; but it does not follow that he iscontinually musing on the thought of death. As with death, so with thisold love of mine. What a difference, if we had married! She was a verylovely girl--at least, I thought so then. Very likely I should notthink her so now. My taste and knowledge have developed; a differentorder of things interests me. It may not be an altogether pleasantthing to confess; but, knowing myself as I now do, I have often thankedmy stars that I am a bachelor.

Doubtless she is even more changed than I am. A woman changes more thana man in seven years, and a married woman especially must change agreat deal from twenty-two to twenty-nine. Think of Ethel Leigh beingin her thirtieth year! and the mother of four or five children,perhaps. Well, for the matter of that, think of the romantic andambitious young Claude Campbell being an old bachelor of forty! I havemarried Art instead of Ethel, and she, instead of being Mrs. Campbell,is Mrs. Courtney.

It was a surprising thing--her marrying him so suddenly. But,appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, I have never quite made upmy mind that Ethel was really fickle. She did it out of pique, orpride, or impulse, or whatever it is that sways women in such cases.She was angry, or indignant--how like fire and ice at once she was whenshe was angry!--and she was resolved to show me that she could dowithout me. She would not listen to my explanations; and I was alwaysawkward and stiff about making explanations. Besides, it was not aneasy matter to explain, especially to a girl like her. With a marriedwoman or a widow it would have been a simple thing enough. But EthelLeigh, the minister's daughter--innocent, ignorant, passionate--she wouldtolerate nothing short of a public disavowal and discontinuance of myrelations with Mrs. Murray, and that, of course, I could not consent to,though heaven knows (and so must Ethel, by this time) that Mrs. Murray wasnothing to me save as she was the wife of my friend, during whoseenforced absence I was bound to look after her, to some extent. It wasnot my fault that poor Mrs. Murray was a fool. But such are thetrumpery seeds from which tragedies grow. Not that ours was a tragedy,exactly: Ethel married her English admirer, and I became a somewhatdistinguished artist, that is all. I wonder whether she has been happy!Likely enough; she was born to be wealthy; Englishmen make goodhusbands sometimes, and her London life must have been a brilliantone.... I have been looking at my old photograph of her--the one shegave me the morning after we were engaged. Tall, slender, dark, withlevel brows, and the bearing of a Diana. She certainly was handsome,and I shall not run the risk of spoiling this fine memory by calling onher. Even if she have not deteriorated, she can scarcely have improved.Nay, even were she the same now as then, I should not find her so,because of the change in myself. Why should I blink the truth?Experience, culture, and the sober second thought of middle age havecarried me far beyond the point where I could any longer be in sympathywith this crude, thin-skinned, impulsive girl. And then--four or fivechildren! Decidedly, I will give her a wide berth. And Courtneyhimself, with his big beard, small brain, and obtrusive laugh! I shallstep across to California for a few months.

_May 1st_.--Called this morning on Ethel Leigh--Mrs. DeightonCourtney, that is to say. She is not so much changed, but she hascertainly improved. When I say she has not changed much, I refer to herphysical appearance. Her features are scarcely altered; her figure is alittle fuller and more compact; in her bearing there is a certain quietcomposure and self-possession--the air of a woman who has seen theworld, has received admiration, and is familiar with the gracefullittle arts of social intercourse. In short, she has acquired a highexternal polish; and that is precisely what she most needed. Evidently,too, there is an increased mental refinement corresponding to theoutward manner. She has mellowed, sweetened--whether deepened or not Ishould hesitate to affirm. But I am quite sure that I find her morecharming to talk with, more supple in intercourse, more fascinating, ina word, than formerly. We chatted discursively and rather volubly formore than an hour; yet we did not touch on anything very serious orprofound. They are staying at the Brevoort House. Courtney himself, by-the-by, is still in Boston (they landed there), where business willdetain him a few days. Ethel goes on a house-hunting expedition to-morrow, and I am going with her; for New York has altered out of herrecollection during these seven years. They are to remain here threeyears, perhaps longer. Courtney is to establish and oversee an Americanbranch of his English business.

They have only one child--a pretty little thing: Susie and I becamegreat friends.

Mrs. Courtney opened the door of the private sitting-room in which Iwas awaiting her, and came in--beautifully! She has learned how to dothat since I knew her. My own long residence in Paris has made me morecritical than I used to be in such matters; but I do not rememberhaving met any woman in society with manners more nearly perfect thanMrs. Courtney's. Ethel Leigh used to be, upon occasion, painfullyabrupt and disconcerting; and her movements and attitudes, though therewas abundant native grace in them, were often careless andunconventional. Of course, I do not forget that niceties of deportment,without sound qualities of mind and heart to back them, are of triflingvalue; but the two kinds of attraction are by no means incompatiblewith each other. Mrs. Courtney smiles often. Ethel Leigh used to smilerarely, although, when the smile did come, it was irresistibly winning;there was in it exquisite significance and tenderness. It is abeautiful smile still, but that charm of rarity (if it be a charm) islacking. It is a conventional smile more than a spontaneous or a happyone; indeed, it led me to surmise that she had perhaps not been veryhappy since we last met, and had learned to use this smile as a sort ofveil. Not that I suppose for a moment that Courtney has ill-treatedher. I never could see anything in the man beyond a superficialcomeliness, a talent for business, and an affable temper; but ho wasnot in any sense a bad fellow. Besides, he was over head and ears inlove with her; and Ethel would be sure to have the upper hand of anature like his. No, her unhappiness, if she be unhappy, would be dueto no such cause, she and her husband are no doubt on good terms witheach other. But--suppose she has discovered that he fell short of whatshe demanded in a husband; that she overmatched him; that, in order tomake their life smooth, she must descend to him? I imagine it may besomething of that kind. Poor Mrs. Courtney!

She addressed me as "Mr. Campbell," and I dare say she was right. Womenbest know how to meet these situations. To have called me "Claude"would have placed us in a false position, by ignoring the changes thathave taken place. It is wise to respect these barriers; they areconventional, but, rightly considered, they are more of an assistancethan of an obstacle to freedom of intercourse. I asked her how sheliked England. She smiled and said, "It was my business to likeEngland; still, I am glad to see America once more."

"You will entertain a great deal, I presume--that sort of thing?"

"We shall hope to make friends with people--and to meet old friends.It is such a pleasant surprise to find you here. I heard you weresettled in Paris."

"So I was, for several years; the Parisians said nice things about mypictures. But one may weary even of Paris. I returned here two yearsago, and am now as much of a fixture in New York as if I'd never leftit."

"But not a permanent fixture. Shall we never see you in London?"

"My present probabilities lie rather in the direction of California. Iwant to make some studies of the scenery and the atmosphere. Besides, Iam getting too old to think of another European residence."

"No one gets old after thirty--especially no bachelor!" she answered,with a smile. "But if you were ever to feel old, the society of Londonwould rejuvenate you."

"It has certainly done you no harm. But you have the happiness to bemarried."

She looked at me pleasantly and said, "Yes, I make a goodEnglishwoman." That sounded like an evasion, but the expression of herface was not evasive. In the old days she would probably have flushedup and said something cutting.

"You must see my little girl," she said, after a while.

The child was called, and presently came in. She resembles her mother,and has a vivacity scarcely characteristic of English children. I amnot constitutionally a worshiper of children, but I liked Susie. Sheput her arms round her mother's arm, and gazed at me with wide-eyedscrutiny."

"This is Mr. Campbell," said mamma.

"My name is Susan Courtney," said the little thing. "We are going tostay in New York three years. Hot here--this is only an hotel--we aregoing to have a house. How do you do? This is my dolly."

I saluted dolly, and thereby inspired its parent with confidence: sheput her hand in mine, and gave me her smooth little cheek to kiss. "Youare not like papa," she then observed.

I smiled conciliatingly, being uncertain whether it were prudent tofollow this lead; but Mrs. Courtney asked, "In what way different,dear?"

"Papa has a beard," replied Susie.

The incident rather struck me; it seemed to indicate that Mrs. Courtneywas under no apprehension that the child would say anythingembarrassing about the father. Having learned so much, I venturedfarther.

"Do you love papa or mamma best?" I inquired.

"I am with mamma most," she answered, after meditation, "but when papacomes, I like him."

This was non-committal. She continued, "Papa is coming here day afterto-morrow. To-morrow, mamma and I are going to find a house."

"Your husband leaves all that to you?" I said, turning to Mrs.Courtney.

"Mr. Courtney never knows or cares what sort of a place he lives in. Ittook me some little time to get used to that. I wanted everything to bejust in a certain way. They used to laugh at me, and say I was moreEnglish than he."

"Now that you are both here, you must both be American."

"He doesn't enjoy America much. Of course, it is very different fromLondon. An Englishman can not be expected to care for American ways andAmerican quickness, and--"

"American people?" I put in, laughingly.

"Don't undress dolly here," she said to Susie. "It isn't time yet toput her to bed, and she might catch cold."

Was this another evasion? The serene face betrayed nothing, but shehad left unanswered the question that aimed at discovering how she andher husband stood toward each other. After all, however, no answercould have told me more than her no answer did--supposing it to havebeen intentional. I soon afterward took my leave, after having arrangedto call to-morrow and accompany her and Susie on their house-huntingexpedition. Upon the whole, I don't think I am sorry to have renewed myacquaintance with her. She is more delightful--as an acquaintance--thanwhen I knew her formerly. Should I have fallen in love with her had Imet her for the first time as she is now? Yes, and no! In the old daysthere was something about her that commanded me--that fascinated myyouthful imagination. Perhaps it was only the freshness, the ignorance,the timidity of young maidenhood--that mystery of possibilities of anature that has not yet met the world and received its impress for goodor evil. It is this which captivates in youth; and this, of course,Mrs. Courtney has lost. But every quality that might captivate maturemanhood is hers, and, were I likely to think of marriage now, and wereshe marriageable, she is the type of woman I would choose. Yet I do notquite relish the perception that my present feminine ideal (whether itbe lower or higher) is not the former one. But,--frankly, would I marryher if I could? I hardly know: I have got out of the habit of regardingmarriage as among my possibilities; many avenues of happiness that oncewere open to me are now closed against me. Put it, that I have lost afaculty--that I am now able to enjoy only in imagination a phase ofexistence that, formerly, I could have enjoyed in fact. This bit ofself-analysis may be erroneous; but I would not like to run the risk ofproving it so! Am I not well enough off as I am? My health is fair, mymind active, my reputation secure, my finances prosperous. The thingsthat I can dream must surely be better than anything that could happen.I can picture, for example, a state of matrimonial felicity which nomarriage of mine could realize. Besides, I can, whenever I choose, seeMrs. Courtney herself, talk with her, and enjoy her as a reasonable andcongenial friend, apart from the danger and disappointment that mightresult from a closer connection. I think I have chosen the wiser part,or, rather, the wiser part has been thrust upon me. That I shall neverbe wildly happy is, at least, security that I shall never be profoundlymiserable. I shall simply be comfortable. Is this sour grapes? Am I, if notcounting, then discounting my eggs before they are hatched? To suchquestions a practical--a materialized--answer would be the onlyconclusive one. Were Mrs. Courtney ready to drop into my mouth, Ishould either open my mouth, or else I should shut it, and either actwould be conclusive. But, so far from being ready to drop into my mouth,she is immovably and (to all appearances) contentedly fixed where sheis. I suppose I am insinuating that appearances are deceptive; that shemay be unhappy with her husband, and desire to leave him. Well, thereis no technical evidence in support of such an hypothesis; but, again, ina matter of this kind, it is not so much the technical as the indirectevidence that tells--the cadences of the voice, the breathing, thesilences, the atmosphere. There is no denying that I did somehowacquire a vague impression that Courtney is not so large a figure in hiswife's eyes as he might be. I may have been biased by my previousconception of his character, or I may have misinterpreted the impalpable,indescribable signs that I remarked in her. But, once more, how do Iknow that her not caring for him would postulate her caring for me? Whyshould she care for either of us? Our old romance is to her as the memoryof something read in a book, and it is powerless to make her heart beatone throb the faster. Were Courtney to die to-morrow, would his widowexpect me to marry her? Not she! She would settle down here quietly,educate her daughter, and think better of her departed husband withevery year that passed, and less of repeating the experiment that madeher his! I may be prone to romantic and elaborate speculations, but I amnot exactly a fool. I do not delude myself with the idea that Mrs. Courtneyis, at this moment, following my example by recording her impressions ofme at her own writing-desk, and asking herself whether--if such andsuch a thing were to happen--such another would be apt to follow.No; she has put Susie to bed, and is by this time asleep herself, afterhaving read through the "Post," or "Bazar," or the last new novel, asher predilection may be. It is after midnight; since she has not followedmy example, I will follow hers; it is much the more sensible of the two.

_May 2d_.--What a woman she is! and, in a different sense, what aman I am! How little does a man know or suspect himself until he isbrought to the proof! How serenely and securely I philosophized andlaid down the law yesterday! and to-day, how strange to contrast theevent with my prognostication of it! And yet, again, how little hashappened that might not be told in such a way as to appear nothing! Itwas the latent meaning, the spirit, the touch of look and tone. Herhusband may have reached New York by this time; they may be together atthis moment; he will find no perceptible change in her--perceptible tohim! He will be told that I have been her escort during the day, andthat I was polite and serviceable, and that a house has been selected.What more is there to tell? Nothing--that he could hear or understand!and yet--everything! He will say, "Yes, I recollect Campbell; nicefellow; have him to dine with us one of these days." But I shall neversit at their table; I shall never see her again; I can not! I shallstart for California next week. Meanwhile I will write down the historyof one day, for it is well to have these things set visibly before one--to grasp the nettle, as it were. Nothing is so formidable as itappears when we shrink from defining it to ourselves.

I drove to the hotel in my brougham at eleven o'clock, as we hadpreviously arranged. She was ready and waiting for me, and little Susiewas with her. Ethel was charmingly dressed, and there was a soft lookin her eyes as she turned them on me--a look that seemed to say, "Iremember the past; it is pleasant to see you, so pleasant as to besad!" Susie came to me as if I were an old friend, and I lifted thechild from the floor and kissed her twice.

"Why did you give me two kisses?" she demanded, as I put her down."Papa always gives me only one kiss."

"Papa has mamma as well as you to kiss; but I have no one; I am an oldbachelor."

"When you have known mamma longer, will you kiss her too?"

"Old bachelors kiss nobody but little girls," I replied, laughing.

"We went down to the brougham, and after we were seated and on ourway," Ethel said, "Already I feel so much at home in New York, it almoststartles me. I fancied I should have forgotten old associations--shouldhave grown out of sympathy with them; but I seem only to have learnedto appreciate them more. Our memory for some things is better than wewould believe."

"There are two memories in us," I remarked; "the memory of the heartand the memory of the head. The former never is lost, though the othermay be. But I had not supposed that you cared very deeply for theAmerican period of your life."

"England is very agreeable," she said, rather hastily. She turned herhead and looked out of the window; but after a pause she added, as ifto herself, "but I am an American!"

"There is, no doubt, a deep-rooted and substantial repose in Englishlife such as is scarcely to be found elsewhere," I said; "but, for allthat, I have often thought that the best part of domestic happinesscould exist nowhere but here. Here a man may marry the woman he loves,and their affection for each other will be made stronger by thehardships they may have to pass through. After all, when we come to theend of our lives, it is not the business we have done, nor the socialdistinction we have enjoyed--it is the love we have given and receivedthat we are glad of."

"Mamma," inquired Susie, "does Mr. Campbell love you?"

We both of us looked at the child and laughed a little. "Mr. Campbellis an old friend," said Ethel. After a few moments she blushed. Sheheld in her hand some house-agents' orders to view houses, and theseshe now began to examine. "Is this Madison Avenue place likely to be agood one?" she asked me.

"It is conveniently situated and comfortable; but I should think itmight be too large for a family of three. Perhaps, though, you don'tlike a close fit?"

"I don't like empty rooms, though I prefer such rooms as there are tobe large. But it doesn't make much difference. Mr. Courtney moves abouta good deal, and he is as happy in a hotel as anywhere. These Americanhotels are luxurious and splendid, but they are not home-like to me."

"I remember you used to dislike being among a crowd of people youdidn't know."

"Yes, and I haven't yet learned to be sociable in that way. A friend ismore company for me than a score of acquaintances. Dear me! I'm afraidNew York will spoil me--for England!"

"Perhaps Mr. Courtney may be cured of England by New York."

She smiled and said, "Perhaps! He accommodates himself to things moreeasily than I do, but I think one needs to be born in America to knowhow to love it."

Under the veil of discussing America and things in general, we weretalking of ourselves, awakening reminiscences of the past, anddiscovering, with a pleasure we did not venture to acknowledge, that--allowing for the events and the years that had come between--we were asmuch in accord as when we were young lovers. Yes, as much, and perhapseven more. For surely, if one grows in the right way, the sphere ofknowledge and sympathy must enlarge, and thereby the various points ofcontact between two minds and hearts must be multiplied. Ethel and I,during these seven years, had traveled our round of daily life ondifferent sides of the earth; but the miles of sea and land which hadphysically separated us had been powerless to estrange our spirits.Nothing is more strange, in this mysterious complexity of impressionsand events that we call human existence, than the fact that two beings,entirely cut off from all natural means of association and communion,may yet, unknown to each other, be breathing the same spiritual air andlearning the same moral and intellectual lessons. Like two seeds of thesame species, planted, the one in American soil, the other in English,Ethel and I had selected, by some instinct of the soul, the sameelements from our different surroundings; so that now, when we met oncemore, we found a close and harmonious resemblance between the leavesand blossoms of our experience. What can be more touching anddelightful than such a discovery? Or what more sad than to know that itcame too late for us to profit by it?

Oh, Ethel, how easy it is to take the little step that separates lightfrom darkness, happiness from misery! Remembering that we live butonce, and that the worthy enjoyments of life are so limited in numberand so hard to get, it seems unjust and monstrous that one little hourof jealousy or misunderstanding should wreck the fair prospects ofmonths and years. Why is mischief so much readier to our hand thangood?

We got out at a house near the Park. I assisted Ethel to alight, and,as her hand rested on mine, the thought crossed my mind--How sweet ifthis were our own home that we are about to enter!--and I glanced ather face to see whether a like thought had visited her. She maintaineda subdued demeanor, with an expression about the mouth and eyes of apeculiar timid gentleness, and, as it were, a sort of mental leaningupon me for support and protection. She felt, it may be, a little fearof herself, at finding herself--in more senses than one--so near to me;and, woman-like, she depended upon me to protect her against the veryperil of which I was the occasion. No higher or more delicatecompliment can be paid by a woman to a man; and I resolved that I woulddo what in me lay to deserve it. But such resolutions are the hardestin the world to keep, because the circumstance or the impulse of themoment is continually in wait to betray you. Ethel was more fascinatingand lovely in this mood than in any other I had hitherto seen her in;and the misgiving, from which I could not free myself, that the manwhom Fate had made her husband did not appreciate or properly cherishthe gift bestowed upon him, made me warm toward her more than ever. Icould scarcely have believed that such blood could flow in the soberveins of my middle age; but love knows nothing of time or age!

"I do not like this house," Susie declared, when we had been admittedby the care-taker. "It has no carpets, nor chairs, nor pictures; andthe floor is dirty; and the walls are not pretty!"

"I suppose one can have these houses decorated and furnished at shortnotice?" Ethel asked me.

"It would not take long. There are several firms that make it theirspecialty."

"I have always wanted to live in a house where the colors and formswere to my taste. I don't know whether you remember that you used tothink I had some taste in such matters. Mr. Courtney, of course,doesn't care much about art, and he didn't encourage me to carry out myideas. A business man can not be an artist, you know."

"You yourself would have become an artist if--" I began; but I wasapproaching dangerous ground, and I stopped. "This dining-room might bedone in Indian red," I remarked--"the woodwork, that is to say. Thewalls would be a warm salmon color, which contrasts well with the coldblue of the china, which it is the fashion to have about nowadays. Asfor the furniture, antique dark oak is as safe as anything, don't youthink so?"

"I should like all that," said she, moving a little nearer me, andletting her eyes wander about the room with a pleased expression, untilat length they met my own. "If you could only design our decoration forus, I'm sure it would be perfect; at least, I should be satisfied.Well, and how should we... how ought the drawing-room to be done?"

"There is a shade of yellow that is very agreeable for drawing-rooms,and it goes very well with the dull peacock-blue which is in vogue now.Then you could get one of those bloomy Morris friezes. There is somevery graceful Chippendale to be picked up in various places. And nosuch good furniture is made nowadays. But I am advising you too muchfrom the artist's point of view."

"Oh, I can get other sort of advice when I want it." She looked at mewith a smile; our glances met more often now than at first. "But itseems to me," she went on, "that the way the house is built docs notsuit the way we want to decorate it. Let us look at a smaller one. Ishould think ten rooms would be quite enough. And it would be nice tohave a corner house, would it not?"

"If the question were only of our agreement, there would probably notbe much difficulty," I said, in a tone which I tried to make merelycourteous, but which may have revealed something more than courtesybeneath it.

In coming down-stairs she gathered her dress in her right hand and puther left in my arm; and then, in a flash, the picture came before me ofthe last time we had gone arm-in-arm together down-stairs. It was ather father's house, and she was speaking to me of that unlucky Mrs.Murray; we had our quarrel that evening in the drawing-room, and it wasnever made up. From then till now, what a gulf! and yet those yearswould have been but a bridge to pass over, save for the one barrierthat was insurmountable between us.

"What has become of that Mrs. Murray whom you used to know?" she asked,as we reached the foot of the stairs. She relinquished my arm as shespoke, and faced me.

I felt the blood come to my face. "Mrs. Murray was in my thoughts atthe same moment--and perhaps by the same train of associations." Ianswered, "I don't know where she is now; I lost sight of her yearsago--soon after you were married, in fact. Why do you ask?"

"You had not forgotten her, then?"

"I had every reason to forget her, except the one reason for which Ihave remembered her--and you know what that is! Have you mistrusted meall this time?"

"Oh, no--no! I don't think I really mistrusted you at all; and long agoI admitted to myself that you had acted unselfishly and honorably. ButI was angry at the time; you know, sometimes a girl will be angry, evenwhen there is no good reason for it. I have long wished for anopportunity to tell you this, for my own sake, you know, as well as foryours."

"I hardly know whether I am most glad or sorry to hear this," I said,as we moved toward the door. "If you had only been able to say it, orto think it, before ... there would have been a great difference!"

"The worst of mistakes is, they are so seldom set right at the time, orin the way they ought to be. Come, Susie, we are going away now. Susie,do you most like to be American or English?"

"English," replied Susie, without hesitation.

Her mother turned to me and said in a low tone:

"I love her, whichever she is."

I understood what she meant. Susie was the symbol of that inevitableelement in our lives which seems to evolve itself without reference toour desires or efforts; but which, nevertheless, when we haverecognized that it is inevitable, we learn (if we are wise) to acceptand even to love. Save for the estrangement between Ethel and myself,Susie would never have existed; yet there she was, a beautiful child,who had as good a right to be as either of us; and her mother lovedher, and, as it were, bade me love her also. I took the little maidenby the hand and said, "You are right, Susie; the Americans are thechildren of the English, and can not expect to be so wise andcomfortable as they. But you must remember that the Americans have afuture before them, and we are not enemies any more. Will you befriends with me, and let me call you my little girl?"

"I shouldn't mind being your little girl, if I could still have thesame mamma," was Susie's reply. "Papa is away a great deal, and youcould be papa, you know, until he came back."

I made some laughing answer; but, in fact, Susie's frank analysis ofthe situation poignantly kindled an imagination which stood in no needof stimulus. Ah, if this were the Golden Age, when love never wentastray, how happy we might be! But it is not the Golden Age--far fromit! Meanwhile, I think I can assert, with a clear conscience, that nodishonorable purpose possessed me. I loved Ethel too profoundly to wishto do her wrong. Yet I may have wished--I did wish--that a kindlyProvidence might have seen fit to remove the disabilities thatcontrolled us. If a wish could have removed Courtney painlessly toanother world, I think I should have wished it. There was somethingexquisitely touching in Ethel's appearance and manner. She is as pureas any woman that ever lived; but she is a woman! and I felt that, forthis day, I had a man's power over her. Occasionally I was consciousthat her eyes were resting on my face; when I addressed her, her aspectsoftened and brightened; she fell into little moods of preoccupationfrom which she would emerge with a sigh; in many ways she betrayed,without knowing it, the secret that neither of us would mention. I donot mean to imply that she expected me to mention it. A pure woman doesnot realize the dangers of the world; and that very fact is itself herstrongest security against them. But, had I spoken, she would haveresponded. It was a temptation which I could hardly have believed Icould have resisted as I did; but such a woman calls out all that isbest and noblest in a man; and, at the time, I was better than I am!

When we were in the brougham again, I said, "If you will allow me, Iwill drive you to a house I have seen, which belongs to a man with whomI am slightly acquainted. He is on the point of leaving it, but hisfurniture is still in it, and, as he is himself an artist and a man oftaste, it will be worth your while to look at it. He is rather deaf,but that is all the better; we can express our opinions withoutdisturbing him. Perhaps you might arrange to take house and furnitureas they stand."

"Whatever you advise, I shall like to do," Ethel answered.

We presently arrived at the house, which was situated in the upper partof the town, a little to the west of Fifth Avenue. It was a comelygabled edifice of red brick, with square bay-windows and a roomy porch.The occupant, Maler, a German, happened to be at home; and on mysending in my card, we were admitted at once, and he came to greet usin the hall in his usual hearty, headlong fashion.

"My good Campbell," he exclaimed, in his blundering English, "verydelighted to see you. Ah, dis will be madame, and de little maid! Soyou are married since some time--I have not know it! Your servant,Madame Campbell. I know--all de artists know--your husband: we wish wecould paint how he can--but it is impossible! Ha, ha, ha! not so! Now,I am very pleased you shall see dis house. May I beg de honor ofaccompany you? First you shall see de studio; dat I call de stomach ofde house, eh? because it is most important of all de places, and makede rest of de places live. See, I make dat window be put in--you findno better light in New York. Den you see, here we have de alcove, whereMadame Campbell shall sit and make her sewing, while de husband do hiswork on de easel. How you like dat portiere? I design him myself--oh,yes, I do all here; you keep them if you like; I go to Germany, perhapsnot come back after some years, so I leave dem, not so? Now I show youmy little chamber of the piano. See, I make an arched ceiling--groinedarch, eh?--and I gild him; so I get pretty light and pretty sound,not? Ah! madame, I have not de happiness to be married, but I make myhouse so, dat if I get me a wife, she find all ready; but no wife come,so I give him over to Herr Campbell and you. Now we mount up-stairs tode bed-rooms, eh?"

In this way he went over the entire house with us. His loud, jollyvoice, his resounding laugh, his bustling manner, his heedless, boy-like self-confidence, and his deafness, made it impossible to get in aword of explanation, and, after a few efforts, I gave up the attempt.

"Let him suppose what he likes," I said aside to Ethel, "it can make nodifference; he is going away, and you will never see him again. Afterall these years, it can do no great harm for us to play at being Mr.and Mrs. Campbell for an hour!"

"It is a very beautiful house," she said, tacitly accepting what I hadproposed. "It is such a house as I have always dreamed of living in. Ishall not care to look at any others. Will you tell him that we--that Iwill take it just as it stands. You have made this a very pleasant dayfor me--a very happy day," she added, in a lower tone. "Every room herewill be associated with you. You will come here often and see me, willyou not? Perhaps, after all, you might use the studio to paint my--orSusie's portrait in."

"I shall inflict myself upon you very often, I have no doubt," was allI ventured to reply. I could not tell her, at that moment, that we mustnever see each other again. She--after the manner of women--probablysupposes that a man's strength is limitless; that he may do withhimself and make of himself what he chooses; and she supposes that Icould visit her and converse with her day after day, and yet keep mythoughts and my acts within such bounds as would enable me to takeCourtney honestly by the hand. But I know too well my own weakness, andI shall leave her while yet I have power to do so. Tomorrow--or soon--Iwill write to her one last letter, telling her why I go.

Sudden and strange indeed has been this passionate episode in a lifewhich, methought, had done with passion. It has lasted hardly so manyhours as I have lived years; and yet, were I to live on into the nextcentury, it would never cease to influence me in all I think and do. Ican not solve to my satisfaction this problem--why two lives should bewasted as ours have been. Courtney could have been happy with anotherwife, or with no wife at all, perhaps; but, for Ethel and me, therecould be no happiness save in each other. But were she free to-day, theseparation that has already existed--long though it has been--wouldonly serve to render our future union more blissful and complete. Wehave learned, by sad experience, the value of a love like ours, and weshould know how to give it its fullest and widest expression. But oh!what a blank and chilly road lies before us now!

I drove her back to her hotel; we hardly spoke all the way; my heartwas too full, and hers also, I think; though she did not know, as Idid, that it was our last interview. It must be our last! Heaven helpme to keep that resolution!

Susie was not at all impressed by the pathos of the situation; shebabbled all the time, and thus, at all events, afforded us an excusefor our silence. At parting, one incident occurred that may as well berecorded. I had shaken hands with Ethel, speaking a few words offarewell, and allowing her to infer that we might meet again on themorrow; then I turned to Susie, and gave her the kiss which I wouldhave given the world to have had the right to press on her mother'slips. Ethel saw, and, I think, understood. She stooped quickly down,and laid her mouth where mine had been. Through the innocent medium ofthe child, our hearts met; and then I saw her no more.

_May 3d_.--Of course, it may not be true, probably it is not;mistakes are so easily made in the first moments of such horror andconfusion; the dead come to life, and the living die. Or, at the worst,he may be only wounded or disabled. At all events, I decline tobelieve, save upon certain evidence, that the poor fellow has actuallybeen killed. Were it to turn out so, I should feel almost like amurderer; for was not I writing, in this very journal, and perhaps atthe very moment the accident occurred, that if my wish could send himto another world, I would not spare him?

_Later_.--I have read all the accounts in the newspapers thismorning, and all agree in putting Courtney's name among the killed.There can be no doubt about it any longer; he is dead. When thecollision occurred, the car in which he vas riding was thrown acrossthe track, and the other train crashed through it. Judging by thecondition of the body when discovered, death must have been nearlyinstantaneous. Poor Courtney! My conscience is not at ease. Of course,I am not really responsible; that is only imagination. But I begin tosuspect that my imagination has been playing me more than one tricklately.

And now, with this new state of affairs so suddenly and terriblybrought about, what is to be done? I am as yet scarcely in a conditionto reflect calmly; but a voice within me seems to say that somethingelse besides my conscience has been awakened by Courtney's death. Canit be that imagination, dallying with what it took for impossibilities,could so far mislead a man? Well, I shall start at once for the sceneof the disaster, and relieve the poor fellow's widow of whatever pain Ican. Ethel Courtney a widow! Ah, Ethel! Death sheds a ghastly lightupon the idle vagaries of the human heart.

_May 15th_.--_Denver_, _Colorado_.--Magnificent weatherand scenery; very different from my own mental scenery and mood at thismoment. I am sorely out of spirits; and no wonder, after the recklessand insane emotion of the first days of this month. One pays for suchindulgences at my age.

I have been re-reading the foregoing pages of this journal. Was I afool or a coward, or was I merely intoxicated for eight-and-fortyhours? At all events, Courtney's tragic end sobered me, and put what Ihad been doing in a true light. I am glad my insanity was not permittedto proceed farther than it did; but I have quite enough to reproachmyself with as it is. So far as I hare been able to explain the matterto myself, my prime error lay in attributing, in a world subject toconstant change, too much permanence to a given state of affairs. Thefact that Ethel was the wife of another man seemed to me so fixed andunalterable that I allowed my imagination to play with the picture ofwhat might happen if that unalterable fact were altered. Secure in thisfallacy, I worked myself up to the pitch of believing that I wasactually and passionately in love with a woman whose inaccessibilitywas, after all, her most winning attraction. Moreover, by writing down,in this journal, the events and words of the hours we spent together, Iconfirmed myself in my false persuasion, and probably imported into therecord of what we said and did an amount of color and hiddensignificance that never, as I am now convinced, belonged to it inreality. Deluded by the notion that I was playing with a fancy, I wassuddenly aroused to find myself imbrued in facts. The whole episode hasprofoundly humiliated me, and degraded me in my own esteem.

But I am not at the bottom of the mystery yet. Was I not in love withEthel? Surely I was, if love be anything. Then why did I not ask her tomarry me? Would she have refused me? No. That last look she gave mefrom under her black veil, when I told her I was going away.... Ah, no,she would not have refused me. Then why did I hesitate? Was not such amarriage precisely what I have always longed for? During all theseseven years have I not been bewailing my bachelorhood, and wishing foran Ethel to cheer my solitary fireside with her gracious presence, tobe interested in my work and hopes, to interest me in her wifely andmaternal ways and aspirations? And when at last all these things wereoffered me, why did I shrink back and reject them?

Honestly, I can not explain it. Perhaps, if I had never loved herbefore, I might have loved her this time enough to unite my fate withhers. Or, perhaps--for I may as well speak plainly, since I am speakingto myself--perhaps, by force of habit, I had grown to love, better thanlove itself, those self-same forlorn conditions and dreary solitudeswhich I was continually lamenting and praying to be delivered from.What a dismal solution of the problem this would be were it the trueone! It amounts to saying that I prefer an empty room, a silent hearth,an old pair of slippers, and a dressing-gown to the love andcompanionship of a refined and beautiful woman!--that I love even myown discomforts more than the comfort she would give me! It soundsabsurd, scandalous, impossible; and yet, if it be not the literaltruth, I know not what the truth is. It is amazing that an educated andintelligent man can live to be forty years old and still have come tono better an understanding of himself than I had. Verily, as my oldauthor said, thought is free, but nature is captive, and loveth herchain. Yes, my old author was right.

MY FRIEND PATON.

Mathew Morriss, my father, was a cotton merchant in Liverpool twenty-five years ago--a steady, laborious, clear-headed man, veryaffectionate and genial in his private intercourse. He was wealthy, andwe lived in a sumptuous house in the upper part of the city. This waswhen I was about ten years old. My father was twice married; I was thechild of the first wife, who died when I was very young; my stepmothercame five years later. She was the elder of two sisters, both beautifulwomen. The sister often came to visit us. I remember I liked her betterthan I liked my stepmother; in fact, I regarded her with that sort ofromantic attachment that often is developed in lads of my age. She hadgolden brown hair and a remarkably sweet voice, and she sang and playedin a manner that transported me with delight; for I was already devotedto music. She was of a gentle yet impulsive temperament, easily movedto smiles and tears; she seemed to me the perfection of womankind, andI made no secret of my determination to marry her when I grew up. Sheused to caress me, and look at me in a dreamy way, and tell me I wasthe nicest and handsomest boy in the world. "And as soon as you are ayear older than I am, John," she would say, "you shall marry me, if youlike."

Another frequent visitor at our house at this time was not nearly somuch a favorite of mine. This was a German, Adolf Körner by name, whohad been a clerk in my father's concern for a number of years, and hadjust been admitted junior partner. My father placed every confidence inhim, and often declared that he had the best idea of business he hadever met with. This may very likely have been the fact; but to me heappeared simply a tall, grave, taciturn man, of cold manners, speakingwith a slight German accent, which I disliked. I suppose he was aboutthirty-seven years of age, but I always thought of him as older than myfather, who was fifty. Another and more valid reason for my dislikingKörner was that he was in the habit of paying a great deal of attentionto my ladylove, Miss Juliet Tretherne. I used to upbraid Juliet aboutencouraging his advances, and I expressed my opinion of him in theplainest language, at which she would smile in a preoccupied wav, andwould sometimes draw me to her and kiss me on the forehead. Once shesaid, "Mr. Körner is a very noble gentleman; you must not dislike him."This had the effect of making me hate him all the more.

One day I noticed an unusual commotion in the house, and Juliet camedown-stairs attired in a lovely white dress, with a long veil, andfragrant flowers in her hair. She got into a carriage with my fatherand stepmother, and drove away. I did not understand what it meant, andno one told me. After they were gone I went into the drawing-room, and,greatly to my surprise, saw there a long table covered with a whitecloth and laid out with a profusion of good things to eat and drink insparkling dishes and decanters. In the middle of the table was a greatcake covered with white frosting; the butler was arranging some flowersround it.

"What is that cake for, Curtis?" I asked.

"For the bride, to be sure," said Curtis, without looking up.

"The bride! who is she?" I demanded in astonishment.

"Your aunt Juliet, to be sure!" said Curtis, composedly, stepping backand contemplating his floral arrangement with his head on one side.

I asked no more, but betook myself with all speed to my room, lockedthe door, flung myself on the bed, and cried to heartbreaking withgrief, indignation, and mortification. After a very long time some onetried the door, and a voice--the voice of Juliet--called to me. I madeno answer. She began to plead with me; I resisted as long as I could,but finally my affection got the better of my resentment, and I aroseand opened the door, hiding my tear-stained face behind my arm. Julietcaught me in her arms and kissed me; tears were running down her owncheeks. How lovely she looked! My heart melted, and I was just on thepoint of forgiving her when the voice of Körner became audible frombelow, calling out "Mrs. Körner!" I tore myself away from her, andcried passionately, "You don't love me! you love him! go to him!" Shelooked at me for a moment with a pained expression; then she put herhand in the pocket of her dress and drew out something done up in whitepaper. "See what I have brought you, you unkind boy," said she. "Whatis it?" I demanded. "A piece of my wedding-cake," she replied. "Give itme!" said I. She put it in my hand; I ran forward to the head of thestairs, which Körner was just ascending, dashed the cake in his face,and then rushed back to my own room, whence neither threats nor coaxingavailed to draw me forth for the rest of the day.

I never saw Juliet again. She and her husband departed on theirwedding-trip that afternoon; it was to take them as far as Germany, forKörner said that he wished to visit his father and mother, who werestill alive, before settling down permanently in Liverpool. Whetherthey really did so was never discovered. But, about a fortnight later,a dreadful fact came to light. Körner--the grave and reticent Körner,whom everybody trusted and thought so highly of--was a thief, and hehad gone off with more than half my father's property in his pocket.The blow almost destroyed my father, and my stepmother, too, for thatmatter, for at first it seemed as though Juliet must have been privy tothe crime. This, however, turned out not to have been the case. Herfate must have been all the more terrible on that account; but no newsof either of them ever came back to us, and my father would never takeany measures to bring Körner to justice. It was several months beforehe recovered from the shock sufficiently to take up business again; andthen the American Civil War came and completed his ruin. He died, apoor and broken-down man, a year later. My stepmother, who was reallyan admirable woman, realized whatever property remained to us, took asmall house, and sent me to an excellent school, where I was educatedfor Cambridge. Meanwhile I had been devoting all possible time tomusic; for I had determined to become a composer, and I was lookingforward, after taking my degree, to completing my musical educationabroad; but my mother's health was precarious, and, when the time came,she found herself unequal to making the journey, and the change ofhabits and surroundings that it implied. We lived very quietly inLiverpool for three or four years; then she died, and, after I hadsettled our affairs, I found myself in possession of a small income andalone in the world. Without loss of time I set out for the Continent.

I went to a German city, where the best musical training was to be had,and made my arrangements to pass several years there. At the banker's,when I went to provide for the regular receipt of my remittances, I meta young American, by name Paton Jeffries. He was from New England, and,I think, a native of the State of Connecticut; his father, he told me,was a distinguished inventor, who had made and lost a considerablefortune in devising a means of promoting sleep by electricity. Patonwas studying to be an architect, which, he said, was the comingprofession in his country; and it was evident, on a short acquaintance,that he was a fellow of unusual talents--one of those men of whom yousay that, come what may, they are always sure to fall on their feet.For my part, I have certainly never met with so active and versatile aspirit. He was a year or so older than I, rather tall than short,lightly but strongly built, with a keen, smiling, subtle face, afinely-developed forehead, light wavy hair, and gray eyes, verypenetrating and bright. There was a pleasing kind of eagerness andvolubility in his manner of talking, and a slight imperfection, notamounting to a lisp, in his utterance, which imparted a naive charm tohis speech. He used expressive and rapid gestures with his hands andarms, and there was a magnetism, a fascination, about the whole manthat strongly impressed me. I was at that period much more susceptibleof impressions, and prone to yield to them, than I am now. Paton'srattling vivacity, his knowledge of the world, his entertaining talkand stories, his curiosity, enterprise, and audacity, took me by storm;he was my opposite in temperament and character, and it seemed to methat he had most of the advantages on his side. Nevertheless, heprofessed, and I still believe he felt, a great liking for me, and wespeedily came to an agreement to seek a lodging together. On the secondday of our search, we found just what we wanted.

It was an old house, on the outskirts of the town, standing by itself,with a small garden behind it. It had formerly been occupied by anAustrian baron, and it was probably not less than two hundred yearsold. The baron's family had died out, or been dispersed, and now thevenerable edifice was let, in the German fashion, in separate floors or_étages_, communicating with a central staircase. Some alterationsrendered necessary by this modification had been made, butsubstantially the house was unchanged. Our apartment comprised four orfive rooms on the left of the landing and at the top of the house,which consisted of three stories. The chief room was the parlor, whichlooked down through a square bow-window on the street. This room was ofirregular shape, one end being narrower than the other, and nearlyfitting the space at this end was a kind of projecting shelf ormantelpiece (only, of course, there was no fireplace under it, openfireplaces being unknown in Germany), upon which rested an old crackedlooking-glass, made in two compartments, the frame of which, black withage and fly-spots, was fastened against the wall. The shelf wassupported by two pilasters; but the object of the whole structure was amystery; so far as appeared, it served no purpose but to support thelooking-glass, which might just as well have been suspended from a nailin the wall. Paton, I remember, betrayed a great deal of curiosityabout it; and since the consideration of the problem was more in hisline of business than in mine, I left it to him. At the opposite end ofthe room stood a tall earthenware stove. The walls were wainscoted fivefeet up from the dark polished floor, and were hung with several smokyold paintings, of no great artistic value. The chairs and tables wereplain, but very heavy and solid, and of a dark hue like the room. Thewindow was nearly as wide as it was high, and opened laterally from thecenter on hinges. The other rooms were of the same general appearance,but smaller. We both liked the place, and soon made ourselves verycomfortable in it. I hired a piano, and had it conveyed upstairs to theparlor; while Paton disposed his architectural paraphernalia on and inthe massive writing-table near the window. Our cooking and otherhousehold duties were done for us by the wife of the _portier_,the official corresponding to the French _concierge_, who, in allGerman houses, attends at the common door, and who, in this case, livedin a couple of musty little closets opening into the lower hall, andeked out his official salary by cobbling shoes. He was an odd,grotesque humorist, of most ungainly exterior, black haired andbearded, with a squint, a squab nose, and a short but very powerfulfigure. Dirty he was beyond belief, and he was abominably fragrant ofvile tobacco. For my part, I could not endure this fellow; but Paton,who had much more of what he called human nature in him than I had,established friendly relations with him at once, and reported that hefound him very amusing. It was characteristic of Paton that, though heknew much less about the German language than I did, he couldunderstand and make himself understood in it much better; and, when wewere in company, it was always he who did the talking.

It would never have occurred to me to wonder, much less to inquire, whomight be the occupants of the other _étages_; but Paton was moreenterprising, and before we had been settled three days in our newquarters, he had gathered from his friend the portier, and from othersources, all the obtainable information on the subject. The informationwas of no particular interest, however, except as regarded the personswho dwelt on the floor immediately below us. They were two--an old manand a young woman, supposed to be his daughter. They had been livinghere several years--from before the time, indeed, that the portier hadoccupied his present position. In all these years the old man was knownto have been out of his room only twice. He was certainly an eccentricperson, and was said to be a miser and extremely wealthy. The portierfurther averred that his property--except such small portion of it aswas invested and on the income of which he lived--was realized in theform of diamonds and other precious stones, which, for greatersecurity, he always carried, waking or sleeping, in a small leathernbag, fastened round his neck by a fine steel chain. His daughter wasscarcely less a mystery than he, for, though she went out as often astwice or thrice a week, she was always closely veiled, and her figurewas so disguised by the long cloak she wore that it was impossible tosay whether she were graceful or deformed, beautiful or ugly. Thebalance of belief, however, was against her being attractive in anyrespect. The name by which the old miser was known was Kragendorf; but,as the portier sagaciously remarked, there was no knowing, in suchcases, whether the name a man bore was his own or somebody's else.

This Kragendorf mystery was another source of apparently inexhaustibleinterest to Paton, who was fertile in suggestions as to how it might beexplained or penetrated. I believe he and the portier talked it over atgreat length, but, so far as I am aware, without arriving at anysolution. I took little heed of the matter, being now fully absorbed inmy studies; and it is to be hoped that Herr Kragendorf was not of anervous temperament, otherwise he must have inveighed profanely againstthe constant piano-practice that went on over his head. I also had aviolin, on which I flattered myself I could perform with a good deal ofexpression, and by and by, in the long, still evenings--it wasNovember, but the temperature was still mild--I got into the habit ofstrolling along the less frequented streets, with my violin under myshoulder, drawing from it whatever music my heart desired. OccasionallyI would pause at some convenient spot, lean against a wall, and givemyself up to improvisation. At such times a little cluster of auditorswould gradually collect in front of me, listening for the most partsilently, or occasionally giving vent to low grunts and interjectionsof approval. One evening, I remember, a young woman joined the group,though keeping somewhat in the background; she listened intently, andafter a time gradually turned her face toward me, unconsciously as itwere; and the light of a street-lamp at a little distance revealed acountenance youthful, pale, sad, and exquisitely beautiful. Itimpressed me as with a vague reminiscence of something I had seen orimagined--some pictured face, perhaps, caught in a glance and never tobe identified. Her eyes finally met mine; I stopped playing. Shestarted, gave me an alarmed look, and, gliding swiftly away,disappeared. I could not forget this incident; it haunted me strangelyand persistently. Many a time thereafter I revisited the same spot, anddrew together other audiences, but the delicate girl with the dark-blueeyes and the tender, sensitive mouth, was never again among them.

It was at this epoch, I think, that the inexhaustible Paton made adiscovery. From my point of view it was not a discovery of any moment;but, as usual, he took interest in it enough for both of us. Itappeared that, in attempting to doctor the crack in the old looking-glass, a large piece of the plate had got loose, and come away in hishands; and in the space behind he had detected a paper, carefullyfolded and tied up with a piece of faded ribbon. Paton was never in thehabit of hampering himself with fine-drawn scruples, and he had nohesitation in opening the folded paper and spreading it out on thetable. Judging from the glance I gave it, it seemed to be a confusedand abstruse mixture of irregular geometrical figures and crampedGerman chirography. But Paton set to work upon it with as muchconcentration as if it had been a recipe for the Philosopher's Stone;he reproduced the lines and angles on fresh paper, and labored over thewriting with a magnifying-glass and a dictionary. At times he wouldmutter indistinctly to himself, lift his eyebrows, nod or shake hishead, bite his lips, and rub his forehead, and anon fall to work againwith fresh vigor. At last he leaned back in his chair, thumped his handon the table, and laughed.

"Analytical pudding's end! It's a plan of a house, my boy, and, what'smore, of this very house we're in! That's a find, and no mistake! Theseare the descriptions and explanations--these bits of writing. It's aperfect labyrinth of Crete! Udolpho was nothing to it!"

"Well, I suppose it isn't of much value except as a curiosity?"

"Don't be too sure of that, John, my boy! Who knows but there's atreasure concealed somewhere in this house? or a skeleton in a secretchamber! This old paper may make our fortune yet!"

"The treasure wouldn't belong to us if we found it; and, besides, wecan't make explorations beyond our own premises, and we know what's inthem already."

"Do we? Did we know what was behind the looking-glass? Did you neverhear of sliding panels, and private passages, and concealed staircases?Where's your imagination, man? But you don't need imagination--here itis in black and white!"

As he spoke, he pointed to a part of the plan; but, as I was stoopingto examine it, he seemed to change his mind.

"No matter," he exclaimed, suddenly folding up the paper and risingfrom his chair. "You're not an architect, and you can't be expected togo in for these things. No; there's no practical use in it, of course.But secret passages were always a hobby of mine. Well, what are yougoing to do this evening? Come over to the café and have a game ofbilliards!"

"No; I shall go to bed early to-night."

"You sleep too much," said Paton. "Everybody does, if my father,instead of inventing a way of promoting sleep, had invented a way ofdoing without it, he'd have been the richest man in America to-day.However, do as you like. I sha'n't be back till late."

He put on his hat and sallied forth with a cigar in his mouth. Patonwas of rather a convivial turn; he liked to have a good time, as hecalled it; and, indeed, he seemed to think that the chief end of manwas to get money enough to have a good time continually, a sort of goodeternity. His head was strong, and he could stand a great deal ofliquor; and I have seen him sip and savor a glass of raw brandy orwhisky as another man would a glass of Madeira. In this, and the otherphases of his life about town, I had no participation, beingconstitutionally as well as by training averse therefrom; and he, onthe other hand, would never have listened to my sage advice to modifyhis loose habits. Our companionship was apart from these things; and,as I have said, I found in him a good deal that I could sympathizewith, without approaching the moralities.

That night, after I had been for some time asleep, I awoke and foundmyself listening to a scratching and shoving noise that seemed quiteunaccountable. By-and-by it made me uneasy. I got up and went towardthe parlor, from which the noise proceeded. On reaching the doorway, Isaw Paton on his knees before one of the pilasters in the narrow end ofthe room; a candle was on the floor beside him, and he was busily atwork at something, though what it was I could not make out. The creakof the threshold under my foot caused him to look round. He startedviolently, and sprang to his feet.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" he said, after a moment. "Great Scott! how youscared me! I was--I dropped a bit of money hereabouts, and I wasscraping about to find it. No matter--it wasn't much! Sorry I disturbedyou, old boy." And, laughing, he picked up his candle and went into hisown room.

From this time there was a change vaguely perceptible in our mutualrelations; we chatted together less than before, and did not see somuch of each other. Paton was apt to be out when I was at home, andgenerally sat up after I was abed. He seemed to be busy aboutsomething--something connected with his profession, I judged; but,contrary to his former custom, he made no attempt to interest me in it.To tell the truth, I had begun to realize that our different tastes andpursuits must lead us further and further apart, and that ourseparation could be only a question of time. Paton was a materialist,and inclined to challenge all the laws and convictions that mankind hasinstituted and adopted; there was no limit to his radicalism. Forexample, on coming in one day, I found him with a curious antiqueponiard in his hands, which he had probably bought in some oldcuriosity shop. At first I fancied he meant to conceal it; but, if so,he changed his mind.

"What do you think of that?" he said, holding it out to me. "There's asolution of continuity for you! Mind you don't prick yourself! It'spoisoned up to the hilt!"

"What do you want of such a thing?" I asked.

"Well, killing began with Cain, and isn't likely to go out of fashionin our day. I might find it convenient to give one of my friends--you,for instance--a reminder of his mortality some time. You'll say murderis immoral. Bless you, man, we never could do without it! No man diesbefore his time, and some one dies every day that some one else maylive."

This was said in a jocose way, and, of course, Paton did not mean it.But it affected me unpleasantly nevertheless.

As I was washing my hands in my room, I happened to look out of mywindow, which commanded a view of the garden at the back of the house.It was an hour after sunset, and the garden was nearly dark; but Icaught a movement of something below, and, looking more closely, Irecognized the ugly figure of the portier. He seemed to be tyingsomething to the end of a long slender pole, like a gigantic fishing-rod; and presently he advanced beneath my window, and raised the poleas high as it would go against the wall of the house. The point hetouched was the sill of the window below mine--probably that of thebedroom of Herr Kragendorf. At this juncture the portier seemed to bestartled at something--possibly he saw me at my window; at all events,he lowered his pole and disappeared in the house.

The next day Paton made an announcement that took me by surprise. Hesaid he had made up his mind to quit Germany, and that very shortly. Hementioned having received letters from home, and declared he had got,or should soon have got, all he wanted out of this country. "I'm goingto stop paying money for instruction," he said, "and begin to earn itby work. I shall stay another week, but then I'm off. Too slow here forme! I want to be in the midst of things, using my time."

I did not attempt to dissuade him; in fact, my first feeling was ratherone of relief; and this Paton, with his quick preceptions, was probablyaware of.

"Own up, old boy!" he said, laughing; "you'll be able to endure myabsence. And yet you needn't think of me as worse than anybody else. Ifeverybody were musicians and moralists, it would be nice, no doubt; butone might get tired of it in time, and then what would you do? You mustgive the scamps and adventurers their innings, after all! They may notdo much good, but they give the other fellows occupation. I was bornwithout my leave being asked, and I may act as suits me without askinganybody's leave."

This was said on a certain bright morning after our first fall of snow;the tiled roofs of the houses were whitened with it, it cushioned thewindow-sills, and spread a sparkling blankness over the garden. In thestreets it was already melting, and people were slipping and splashingon the wet and glistening pavements. After gazing out at this scene fora while, in a mood of unwonted thoughtfulness, Paton yawned, stretchedhimself, and declared his intention of taking a stroll before dinner.Accordingly he lit a cigar and went forth. I watched him go down thestreet and turn the corner.

An hour afterward, just when dinner was on the table, I heard anunusual noise and shuffling on the stairs, and a heavy knock on thedoor. I opened it, and saw four men bearing on a pallet the form of myfriend Paton. A police officer accompanied them. They brought Paton in,and laid him on his bed. The officer told me briefly what had happened,gave me certain directions, and, saying that a surgeon would arriveimmediately, he departed with the four men tramping behind him.

Paton had slipped in going across the street, and a tramway car had runover him. He was not dead, though almost speechless; but his injurieswere such that it was impossible that he should recover. He kept hiseyes upon me; they were as bright as ever, though his face was deadlypale. He seemed to be trying to read my thoughts--to find out myfeeling about him, and my opinion of his condition. I was terriblyshocked and grieved, and my face no doubt showed it. By-and-by I sawhis lips move, and bent down to listen.

"Confounded nuisance!" he whispered faintly in my car. "It's all right,though; I'm not going to die this time. I've got something to do, andI'm going to do it--devil take me if I don't!"

He was unable to say more, and soon after the surgeon came in. He madean examination, and it was evident that he had no hope. His shrug ofthe shoulders was not lost upon Paton, who frowned, and made a defiantmovement of the lip. But presently he said to me, still in the samewhisper, "John, if that old fool should be right--he won't be, but incase of accidents--you must take charge of my things--the papers, andall. I'll make you heir of my expectations! Write out a declaration tothat effect: I can sign my name; and he'll be witness."

I did as he directed, and having explained to the surgeon the nature ofthe document, I put the pen in Paton's hand; but was obliged to guidehis hand with my own in order to make an intelligible signature. Thesurgeon signed below, and Paton seemed satisfied. He closed his eyes;his sufferings appeared to be very slight. But, even while I waslooking at him, a change came over his face--a deadly change. His eyesopened; they were no longer bright, but sunken and dull. He gave me adusky look--whether of rage, of fear, or of entreaty, I could not tell.His lips parted, and a voice made itself audible; not like his ownvoice, but husky and discordant. "I'm going," it said. "But look outfor me.... Do it yourself!"

"Der Herr ist todt" (the man is dead), said the surgeon the nextminute.

It was true. Paton had gone out of this life at an hour's warning. Whatpurpose or desire his last words indicated, there was nothing to show.He was dead; and yet I could hardly believe that it was so. He had beenso much alive; so full of schemes and enterprises. Nothing now was leftbut that crushed and haggard figure, stiffening on the bed; nothing, atleast, that mortal senses could take cognizance of. It was a strangethought.

Paton's funeral took place a few days afterward. I returned from thegraveyard weary in body and mind. At the door of the house stood theportier, who nodded to me, and said,

"A very sad thing to happen, worthy sir; but so it is in the world. Ofall the occupants of this house, one would have said the one leastlikely to be dead to-day was Herr Jeffries. Heh! if I had been the goodProvidence, I would have made away with the old gentleman of the_étage_ below, who is of no use to anybody."

This, for lack of a better, was Paton's funeral oration. I climbed thethree flights of stairs and let myself into our apartment--mineexclusively now. The place was terribly lonely; much more so than ifPaton had been alive anywhere in the world. But he was dead; and, ifhis own philosophy were true, he was annihilated. But it was not true!How distinct and minute was my recollection of him--his look, hisgestures, the tones of his voice. I could almost see him before me; mymemory of him dead seemed clearer than when he was alive. In thatinvisible world of the mind was he not living still, and perhaps notfar away.

I sat down at the table where he had been wont to work, and unlockedthe drawers in which he kept his papers. These, or some of them, I tookout and spread before me. But I found it impossible, as yet, toconcentrate my attention upon them; I pushed back my chair, and,rising, went to the piano. Here I remained for perhaps a couple ofhours, striking the vague chords that echo wandering thoughts. I wastrying to banish this haunting image of Paton from my mind, and atlength I partly succeeded.

All at once, however, the impression of him (as I may call it) cameback with a force and vividness that startled me. I stopped playing,and sat for a minute perfectly still. I felt that Paton was in theroom; that if I looked round I should see him. I however restrainedmyself from looking round with all the strength of my will--wherefore Iknow not. What I felt was not fear, but the conviction that I was onthe brink of a fearful and unprecedented experience--an experiencethat would not leave me as it found me. This strange struggle withmyself taxed all my powers; the sweat started out on my forehead. Atlast the moment came when I could struggle no longer. I laid my hand onthe keyboard, and pushed myself round on the stool. There was amomentary dazzle before my eyes, and after that I saw plainly. My hand,striking the keys, had produced a jarring discord; and while this wasyet tingling in my ears, Paton, who was sitting in his old place at thetable, with his back toward me, faced about in his chair, and his eyesmet mine. I thought he smiled.

My excitement was past, and was succeeded by a dead calm. I examinedhim critically. His appearance was much the same as when in life; nay,he was even more like himself than before. The subtle or craftyexpression which had always been discernible in his features was nowintensified, and there was something wild and covertly fierce in theshining of his gray eyes, something that his smile was unable todisguise. What was human and genial in my former friend had passedaway, and what remained was evil--the kind of evil that I now perceivedto have been at the base of his nature. It was a revelation ofcharacter terrible in its naked completeness. I knew at a glance thatPaton must always have been a far more wicked man that I had everimagined; and in his present state all the remains of goodness had beenstripped away, and nothing but wickedness was left.

I felt impelled, by an impulse for which I could not account, toapproach the table and examine the papers once more; and now it enteredinto my mind to perceive a certain method and meaning in them that hadbeen hidden from me before. It was as though I were looking at themthrough Paton's intelligence, and with his memory. He had in some wayceased to be visible to me; but I became aware that he wished me to sitdown in his chair, and I did so. Under his guidance, and in obedienceto a will that seemed to be my own, and yet was in direct opposition tomy real will, I began a systematic study of the papers. Paton,meanwhile, remained close to me, though I could no longer see him; butI felt the gaze of his fierce, shining eyes, and his crafty, evilsmile. I soon obtained a tolerable insight into what the papers meant,and what was the scheme in which Paton had been so much absorbed at thetime of his death, and which he had been so loath to abandon.

It was a wicked and cruel scheme, worked out to the smallestparticular. But, though I understood its hideousness intellectually, itaroused in mo no corresponding emotion; my sensitiveness to right aridwrong seemed stupefied or inoperative. I could say, "This is wicked,"but I could not awaken in myself a horror of committing the wickedness;and, moreover, I knew that, if the influence Paton was able to exerciseover me continued, I must in due time commit it.

Presently I became aware, or, to speak more accurately, I seemed toremember, that there was something in Paton's room which it was